


She Will Endure

by RestlessBluebird



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 03:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13561770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestlessBluebird/pseuds/RestlessBluebird
Summary: Sometimes the biggest obstacles we face are the ones inside us.





	She Will Endure

It starts as it normally does, small pinpricks of dread and doubt in the back of her mind. She pushes them away easily enough, for she has done this dance before and knows how it ends. Best to crush it before it festers. 

But she can’t crush the thoughts, not all of them and not all the time. A few bad reports–dead scouts, failed attempts at alliances, inadequate resources–amplify the thoughts and by days end she hasn’t the energy to swat them away, annoying flies that they are.

Sleep is hard fought and fleeting. After waking up for the fifth time of the night, now morning, she admits defeat and starts her day, several hours earlier than normal. The thoughts persist, louder than usual, as she goes about her routine. Her only respite is battle, where the dull roar of her pulse and clanging metal sounds louder than the waves of anxiety crashing against her. She fights harder, pushing toward whatever stands against her in a vicious whirlwind of steel and flame. It’s reckless, its dangerous, but _gods_ if it isn’t a welcome change. 

Back at Skyhold, she flows through her duties though her steps are leaden. She doesn’t socialize, doesn’t laugh, just tends to one thing after another with a single-minded focus. When finished, just after dusk, she grabs two bottles of wine from the cellars, a hunk of crusty bread and some butter and locks herself within her quarters. 

The week progresses and Zahara gets worse. She’s suffered a few thankfully minor injuries in battle but the true pain is internal. The abusive torrent is continuous, and though armed with drink and magic she is unable to silence it. The nightmares began yesterday, thoughts of the future Alexius would have had come to pass with some embellishments. Sometimes she’s the only one to make it out, sometimes no one makes it out, sometimes she’s tortured and sometimes she’s executed. She’s not sure which is worse. 

Her companions worry, urge her to come out drinking or talking or walking or something but she answers them all the same: with a curt refusal and a promise of _next time, don’t worry_.

She’s taken to barricading herself in her room now, lest nosy people come and check on her. She cant be seen this way, doesn’t want to be seen this way. A few wards and a heavy trunk against the door seem to have done the job. She hasn’t eaten in a day or so, at least she thinks it’s been a day or so; everything blends together after a while. She drinks her wine and her sleeping potion and drifts off to a hopefully dreamless slumber.

She wakes too soon, body heavy, facing the sunrise through the balcony doors. She searches her mind for a single reason to get up and upon finding none, readjusts herself with great effort, and tries her hardest to fall back to sleep. 

She wakes again to darkness, her room only partially illuminated by the moon. There’s a great heaviness, and a great stiffness in her body as she drags herself upright. She walks through the open doors of the balcony, hoping the night air will clear the miasma in her mind; it doesn’t. She thinks of the seas, of the salt spray and the hypnotic waves, of freedom, and grips the railing harder. The banister creaks beneath her hands and the void calls to her. She questions the voices, _why_ , and they answer, _why not_. 

She does not agree. 

There is a silence in her mind for the first time this week. 

She lights all candles and lanterns in the room. Fully illuminated, the room is a mess; empty bottles are littered everywhere and leftover potion dregs stain the bed sheets and stone floor. She gathers them up, her feet sticky with old potion and wine, and places them in a nearby chest. She removes the stained sheets and pillowcases, tossing them in a pile by the door. She sighs, still weary in body, mind, and soul. She’s hungry and tired and so very lonely and she doesn’t know where to start on fixing herself. She takes a half-assed bath from the slightly cold water left in a bucket near the tub. She could warm it up, but she barely has the energy and none of the focus and so, as she does with all things, she endures and carries on. 

It’s late when she comes down to the kitchens, thankfully. Surrounded by the bland and not so bland smells of meat and stews, her stomach growls impatiently and she realizes just how hungry she is. She fills herself and feels a thousand times better, despite the crumbs and juice stains on her tunic. She brushes off her face, wipes her hands on her pants and continues out to the courtyard. 

Zara finds herself at the stables before she knows it. Blackwall’s still awake, whittling away at something. She wonders if he’ll bombard her with questions, or if he’ll simply see the weariness on her face and leave it be. The gods smile on her today, for he simply scoots down on the bench and pats the newly free space, beckoning her closer. She sits and he studies her a while, before going back to his work. This isn’t the first time they’ve sat in silence, and she’s thankful for it now more than ever. She lays her head on his shoulder, an easy task as he’s sitting upright and she’s slouching, straddling the bench instead of sitting properly.

It isn’t until he puts down his craft and tools, instead taking her hand and intertwining his fingers that she begins to cry. A needed, if untimely, release. For a brief and shining moment, she feels everything–shame for not being able to handle herself, idiocy for not asking for help, shame for not coming to him for comfort earlier, happiness at how he tends to her so perfectly. He looks worried, but wipes her tears away nonetheless.

How long they sit there is a mystery to her but eventually he urges her to sleep, offering to take her back to her room. She declines adamantly, her own voice unfamiliar and hoarse as she speaks. _It’s too soon, I’ll slip again, I can’t be alone_ , she thinks. She relents when he offers her his bed. 

She shifts and turns, trying to find a comfortable spot. Eventually exhaustion overpowers discomfort and Zahara is blessed with a night of restful sleep.

She pretends not to notice the cautiously happy looks of the people when they see her stirring about the next morning. She wonders what the rumors were, because there are always rumors, but the days tasks keep her from seeking them out. She wonders who missed her and who, if any, came and tried to coax her out or at least see if she was still alive. She resolves to do better, to be better, to be better prepared to fight her own demons. It’s a small show of power, an ultimately fruitless one as she’s sure to miss the signs again. Still, she attempts to treat herself right. 

The miasma is gone but the effects linger. Her body, stiff and sore and fatigued moves less fluidly than she’d like. The sprain in her shoulder means she can’t safely heft her greatsword, so she settles for an axe and square shield instead. She takes her meals on the battlements, in the gardens, anywhere that isn’t confined and takes in as much fun as she can in the interim. As the days progress, her mind becomes once again fully hers again, no longer clouded by useless and antagonistic thoughts. She knows they’ll return, for this wasn’t the first nor second nor even tenth time, but she has gotten better. She has become better. 

And when it comes again, hopefully a great long time from now, she will do as she always does.

She will endure.


End file.
